


Sins of the Father

by JCRGirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:30:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2539502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCRGirl/pseuds/JCRGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam get hurt during a hunt and Dean comes to realize some things about his feelings for his brother and some ugly truths about his father</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sins of the Father

Sam’s forehead scrunched in annoyance but the jangling ring of the rotary phone continued despite his frustration. He slung his arm out to the side, searching blindly for the offending object, only to curl it back into his side with a hiss of pain. Glaring at the phone through slitted eyelids as it rang on, he let out an aggrieved sigh and levered his torso up on his elbows to awkwardly walk on them closer to the edge of the mattress. He batted at the receiver a few times before finally managing to remove it from the cradle and flopped over on to his back with the earpiece haphazardly placed in the general vicinity of his ear.

“ ‘lo.” Not the friendliest of greetings, but for being so rudely awakened at – he squinted in the direction of the analog clock – fuck, five-thirty in the morning, it was the best he could muster.

“Dean, it’s Charlie,” a man answered, rushing on before Sam’s sleep sluggish brain could reveal his identity. “I need you over at the Farber farm pronto. Miss Bitch is raising hell that you didn’t get the shed painted yesterday. She has some kind of hoity-toity garden party planned for tonight and refuses to have it, and I quote, _creating an eyesore in her back yard_.”

Eyes closed, Sam shifted stiffly on the bed and licked his lips. “Not Dean,” he mumbled, “Sam. Dean’s not here.”

“Fuck,” the curse hissed down the line. “Sam, is it? You’re the brother, right?”

Sam hummed the approximation of an affirmative noise, wanting nothing more than to drift off back to sleep for a few – eight – more hours.

“Look, I’ve been real lenient about your brother having to leave early and needing days off, but he’s always finished up his work before he left. This Farber woman is a big client of mine and I can’t afford for her to take her business elsewhere.”

Sam grunted in understanding, wiggling deeper into the mattress and wincing slightly.

“I need you to find your brother and get his ass over there to finish this job or I’m afraid I’m gonna have to…” The man trailed off.

Sam’s stomach roiled at the implied threat and his eyes snapped open fully for the first time since waking. Dean was hours away and cell phone reception had been spotty at best and non-existent at worst. Sam was pretty sure he wouldn’t be back in time to do whatever it was that Charlie needed done. “Have to what?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

Charlie sighed, resigned. “I’ll have to let him go.”

Sam hesitated for a fraction of a second, but in the end there really wasn’t a choice. Dean couldn’t lose his job. They needed the money and jobs were in high demand in this area. He’d practically lucked into this one. “It’ll be done.”

“You sure? This is pretty important, kid. Dean has to done and out of there by four at the latest.”

“It’ll be done,” Sam repeated, trying to infuse as much confidence as he could into his voice. “I promise.”

“All right. I’m trusting you. I’d hate to see Dean go, but I will. Understand?”

“I understand.” Sam set the phone back on the cradle and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

Dean had been working for Charlie’s handy-man service for almost three months. John, in a rare turn of events, had planted his sons for the summer in a run-down, two bedroom house in a rinky-dink town somewhere on the Louisiana coast while he worked cases in the surrounding areas. The area was rife with supernatural activity, enough to keep John busy and happy while Sam enjoyed the relative stability of living in one place for more than two weeks. It was actually the perfect compromise and Dean was relishing the rare peace in the household.

Like happened all too often when John was focused on saving other families, he forgot about his own. The more mundane parts of life – like making sure the boys had money for trivial things such as rent and groceries – couldn’t compare to the thrill of the hunt. So, Dean had gotten the job to keep him and Sam in housing and food and still managed to meet up with the old man most weekends to help dispatch the monster of the week, Sam tagging along whenever the older Winchesters deemed the hunt benign enough. So far they’d taken care of a rougarou outside of New Orleans, three ghosts – one of which was a Confederate soldier who’d died in Breckenridge’s unsuccessful campaign to recapture Baton Rouge, a cambion reveling in the debauchery and lowered inhibitions of the French Quarter (Both Sam _and_ Dean had been relegated to research on that one), and a poltergeist wreaking havoc at some mansion-cum-museum in Jefferson Parish. Everything had been going well, fairly routine even, until last week.

John had gotten wind of disappearances on Grand Isle, one of the barrier islands at the toe of the Louisiana boot. Within a five day period, three children, all under the age of six, had wandered away from their parents and vanished from the same stretch of beach. It was easily overlooked as something ordinary, pedophiles making easy pickings of the vacation packed shorelines – sickos having a field day in the surf and the sand, but John had a gut feeling it was something more. He interviewed the families: listened to stories told through grieving tears of vibrant, mischievous sons and daughters who hadn’t heeded their parents’ warnings to stay close, witnessed the oh-too-familiar look of guilt on mourning faces for not being able to save those precious to them, and offered condolences that he knew from personal experience didn’t amount to shit in the face of such overwhelming heartbreak. Each account had a common thread, the kids were there one minute and gone the next and humming. A friend or family member had heard humming, ethereal and hypnotic, right before the victims disappeared.

They delved into research with a singularity that only cases with kids could garner. Grand Isle was a small community, dependent on the summer tourist season for their economic well-being, with a city council who turned dismissive eyes to the disappearances in lieu of watching the bottom line. The beaches stayed open, the tourists kept coming…it was only a matter of time before there was another missing kid. It was downright Benchley-esque.

It ended up taking four days and dozens of calls to Bobby, Pastor Jim and Caleb before they’d finally narrowed it down to a Qalupalik, a creature from Inuit mythology that lured disobedient children to the water’s edge by humming. Human-like with green skin and long fingernails, the legends were unclear what the Qalupalik did with the kidnapped children, but they could all venture a guess. Sam was the one to stumble across it, his prowess with an internet search engine unparalleled by the older hunters, and the vast amount of information at his fingertips outmatching even Bobby and Jim’s extensive libraries. A little more digging revealed they were susceptible to iron and that night, the three of them were locked and loaded on the part of the beach the thing used as its hunting ground. Dean’s face was angry and set, his arguments against Sam coming falling on deaf ears.

They’d been on the beach for a while, Dean nagging him like he was a disobedient two-year-old when everything went pear-shaped. Sam remembered the sensation of falling, the world tumbling pell-mell, over and under, and the roar of waves in his ears not quite drowning out the frantic calls of his name. There was pain along his side – searing, lancing, tearing – followed by the harsh burn of salt water in his nose and down his throat as water replaced air. Darkness was settling in, promising peace, then the world righted itself and there was Dean’s voice, thinly veiled panic clear to those who knew what to listen for, in his ear before he passed out completely. He spent two days in a fever and pain-killer induced haze. Through the fog of confusion and narcotics, he sensed his brother’s presence and trustingly succumbed to the pyretic dreams, knowing he was safe in his brother’s keep. The moment his eyes opened clear and lucid, John began packing his bag for the next hunt, barking orders at Dean to do the same.

Dean had protested, vehemently even, refusing to leave Sam when he was still recovering, but the case was date sensitive and couldn’t be delayed. Each year on the anniversary of some hurricane that devastated Delacroix Island in 1965, sportsfishermen were found dead in their hotel rooms, lungs full of saltwater. An inexplicable series of dry land drownings, every year on September 9th. It had taken half a decade for John to piece together the sporadic information that survived the destruction and reconstruction and discover the hotel was built on the remains of a house where a woman had perished in the subsequent flooding, her husband, a fisherman by trade, outrunning the deadly storm at sea. It was only while Sam was burning up and whimpering in pain that John had finally tracked down a woman who remembered the Martineaus and knew where Jane had been buried.

The ninth was only two days away and if they wanted to prevent another death they had to get down there and burn the bones. Jane had thirty-four years to cultivate her vengeance and John wanted Dean there for back-up. Sam told him to go, promised to rest and received a promise in return that Dean would be back in two days tops.

That was how Sam found himself here, alone in a dilapidated shack and nursing twenty-eight stitches, while Dean and Dad headed to St. Bernard Parish. He rolled over on his side and lifted himself into a seated position, biting back a groan. Peeling away the gauze he’d taped over the wound the night before, Sam examined the three neat rows of black marching over his ribs toward his back. Dean’s work, too neat to be Dad’s. They were a little red around the edges, slightly swollen and warm to the touch, but didn’t appear to be infected. Nodding his head, he smoothed the gauze back down and shoved off the bed to rummage for clean clothes. He had a shed to paint.

 

*****

 

The Farber’s “shed” was more like a small barn and the T-111 siding soaked up the paint requiring multiple coats before achieving the precise shade of white that satisfied Mrs. Farber. The hell that could be Louisiana in August made itself known and Sam went through an old milk jug filled with water by eight o’clock that morning.

The noon-day sun was beating down on him as he applied the second coat when he saw Mrs. Farber for the first time. She was an attractive woman in her early forties, hair perfectly coifed and make-up flawless despite the heavy humidity in the air, in a pair of tailored grey dress slacks and a white silk shirt. Her heels clicked against the garden path in a hurried pace as she approached a middle-aged gardener carefully pruning the hedge that skirted the fenced tennis courts.

“Gardener! Gardener!” She called as she neared the man, voice pitching higher as her calls went unanswered.

Sam kept his focus on the stretch of wall in front of him but heard the rhythmic ‘schnick’ of the clippers falter slightly, the man hearing and ignoring the increasingly frustrated woman.

“Gardener!” The woman practically yelled as she came up beside the man, sighing in aggravation when he slowly lowered his clippers and turned to her with a blank expression. “I told you that I wanted the rose bushes on the west side of the house removed and replaced with the gardenias I had delivered.”

From the corner of his eye, Sam glanced at the house to see a row of beautifully maintained rose bushes, each laden with large prize-worthy blooms bursting with color, lining the western wall. Obvious love and care had gone into growing them, evident in the glossy green of the leaves and the vibrant hues of the petals.

“So do you want to tell me why you planted the gardenias on the east side?” Mrs. Farber pointed a French-tipped finger toward the other side of the house.

Sam dipped his brush into the paint bucket and followed the finger to where he could see a green branch covered in white flowers peeking around the far corner. Wiping the excess paint from the bristles on the edge of the can, he saw the man blink at the woman, face still blank.

Mrs. Farber flushed angrily and threw her hands up in the air, letting them fall hard against her thighs. “Why do I even bother trying to talk to you? You don’t even understand a word I’m saying! God, I wish Jacob would just let me fire you!” She spun on her heel and spotted Sam mid-way up the ladder and obviously watching.

“Who are you? Where’s Dean?” She stomped over, eyes narrowed in suspicion and hands on her hips.

Clearing his dry throat, Sam descended the ladder and squared his shoulders in an attempt to appear older. “I’m Sam.” He held out his paint splattered hand out, retracting it when she sneered in disgust. “Um, Dean wasn’t…wasn’t available today. F-family business. I’m filling in.”

“Sam?” She looked him up and down appraisingly.

“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded, desperately trying not to fidget under her scrutiny.

Her eyes flicked over the shed. “Be sure to have that done by four, not one minute after. My guests should begin arriving at five and I want you gone by then.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sam repeated.

“Good.” She took a few steps up the path, headed back in the direction of the house, when she paused and looked at him over her shoulder. “Sam?”

Sam was on the second rung, one hand on the side of the ladder, the paint can dangling by its handle from the other and the brush handle clenched between his teeth. Leaning against the ladder, he took the brush out of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am?”

“I expect Dean’s ‘family business’ to be concluded by Monday. If not, Charlie need not send a replacement.” She didn’t wait for a response and continued on her way to the house.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Sam climbed the ladder and got back to work.

An hour later, he stepped back to gauge his progress and wiped his arm across his sweaty brow. He felt a firm nudge to his shoulder and when he turned around the gardener stood behind him holding out a bottle of water.

“Drink,” he ordered. “You’re getting dehydrated.”

Sam took the proffered bottle with a raised eyebrow. “I didn’t think you spoke English.”

A mischievous smirk created wrinkles in the man’s tanned face. “Boy, I was born in Shreveport,” he said in a lightly accented Cajun drawl. “Of course, I speak English.” He jerked his chin at the water bottle in Sam’s hands and watched carefully as the young man twisted off the cap and took a long swig. “I’m Diego, by the way.”

Sam swiped the back of his hand over his mouth, catching the water that had dribbled down his chin, before extending it. “Sam.”Diego took the paint smudged hand without hesitation, shaking it in a firm, glove encased grip. Face creasing in confusion, Sam looked at the other man. “Then why does Mrs. Farber…”

“Mrs. Farber suffers from a severe case of ignorance.” The man’s lips curled up at the mention of his employer. “I’ve worked for this family for a long time, hired by the true Mrs. Farber, Miss Ruby. She worked this land, rolled up her sleeves and earned the money that the current Mrs. Farber enjoys flaunting around. Mister Jacob, _her_ husband,” he shot a glance at the house, disdain dripping from the word, “and Miss Ruby’s son, has tried to right her ideas about me, but she refuses to listen. I figure it gives me a chance to ignore her.” He gestured to the bottle, urging Sam to take another drink.

Sam gulped down another sweet swallow.

“She forgets that we were almost family once,” Diego shucked off his work gloves and used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead. At Sam’s raised eyebrow, he smiled wistfully. “I was engaged to Miss Ruby’s daughter, Adeline, but she fell ill and was called home before we could wed.” He glanced to the west where Sam could see the outline of a great stone angel on the crest of a small hill, a low wrought-iron fence outlining a patch of grass surrounding it.

Sam lowered his gaze, unable to face the loss still clear on Diego’s face. “I’m sorry,” he offered, heartfeltly.

He shook his head. “ ‘Twas a long time ago. Didn’t think I’d survive and poor Miss Ruby was absolutely heart sick over it.” He looked out over the pristine yard, mind far away. “Adeline loved it out here. It was how we met. She was walking through the roses and I was mesmerized.” He blinked and smiled at being caught lost in this thoughts. “The day after we laid her to rest, Miss Ruby and I moved the rose garden closer so my sweet Adeline could see them.”

Sam looked over at the tenderly cared for roses, in direct line of sight of the small grave.

“Now the new Mrs. Farber wants them pulled up and replaced with gardenias.” His face twisted into a disgusted grimace. “If she wants it done then she can do it. My Adeline hated gardenias.”

They were silent for a while as Diego glared at the barely visible white flowers with unconcealed hatred. Sam sipped at the water, rolling the cool wetness around in his parched mouth, eyes drifting from the angry man beside him to the stark seraph on the hill. Death and longing and anger, emotions Sam was well acquainted with.

Diego shook his head, the movement bringing Sam’s attention back. “You should finish.” The older man jutted his chin at the barn where Sam could see the wood wicking the color of the second coat. “Noon sun is bad but it ain’t got nothing on the afternoon.”

Sam nodded. “Thanks for this.” Sam gestured with the nearly empty and set it in the shadow of one of the ladder’s legs. Standing up, he winced and pressed his hand to the bandage taped to his side.

“Y’alright there, Sam?” Diego sharp gaze was honed on Sam’s hand.

“Yeah,” Sam lied easily, “just a stitch in my side.”

Sam could tell the other man was less than convinced and was relieved when Diego nodded curtly before picking up his clipper and returning to the bushes. Shifting slightly, Sam picked up the paint can and brush and resumed his work. If it had occurred to him to notice, he might have realized that the diligent sound of branches being trimmed never strayed too far.

Sam trudged back into the house, his shadow preceding him as the setting sun cast it into the darkened room. He was sore and tired and just the effort of placing one foot in front of the other for the five mile journey back to their rental had been nearly overwhelming. He stumbled through the living room to the bedroom. The room was stifling, the drawn curtains doing little to aid the aging air conditioner in battling the oppressive heat of the day. Sam heard the metallic grinding and asthmatic wheeze as the unit kicked on, a lukewarm breeze rattling the register. It wouldn’t cool the room down much but it at least circulated the stagnant air.

Sam swayed on the spot, exhausted eyes darting between the bed and the bathroom, the allure of a cold shower equally as tempting as the promise of the sprung mattress. Worn cotton and bleach-scented sheets won out and Sam tripped forward, weary feet catching on the uneven carpet nap and pitching him onto the bed. He wiggled seeking out a comfortable spot. His skin felt too small, tight and gritty, and he was annoyingly aware of his side in a way that he had never been before, a throbbing ache that burned. His t-shirt and jeans were stiff, perspiration long since evaporated and leaving heavy salt in its wake that chafed and rasped with each movement. He slowly blinked eyes that were hot and dry, body melting into sheets that seemed cool compared to the sunbaked air. Sighing, he closed his eyes.

 

 

*****

 

Dean turned off the Impala’s engine, happy to see the house dark. The boy needed to rest. When he closed his eyes he could still see that green-bodied monster, it’s claws disappearing into Sam’s side as it desperately tried to hang on to its prize. He could smell the metallic tinge of hot blood drifting up on a warm ocean breeze and feel it, body-warmed and thick, coating his fingers as he tried to hold his brother and himself together.

Sam should never have been there to begin with. Dean had wanted to leave him back at the house, argued that the hunt was too dangerous. The thing took kids for crying out loud and, at sixteen, Sam wasn’t far enough out of Underoos for Dean to feel secure in his immunity, but Dad assured him that Bobby was certain Qalupalik’s only took small children. All the lore said they didn’t want anything they couldn’t carry off easily. Tight-lipped, he ignored the cold clench of foreboding squeezing his heart as he’d been forced to agree.

When Dad was telling Dean that the Qalupalik only took small children, someone should have mentioned it to the creature. Apparently, it had never read that passage on itself. That, or spending so much time in the water with bikini-clad sunbathers to look at had given it an affinity for scrawny teenagers. It was right after Dean had reminded Sam for the fiftieth time to stay close, not wander off, when all hell broke loose. Humming and screaming and splashing. Hot lead and cold water and warm blood. Sam came out of it alive, nearly drowned with three deep gashes along his left flank from the Qalupalik digging it’s fingernails in when Dean tried to pull him away, but alive.

They’d raced back to the hotel, Sam slumped against his side and bleeding through a long-ago stolen motel towel they kept in the trunk. Dean held the alarmingly soaked terry cloth over the wound with one hand while he steered with the other. He’d stitched Sam’s skin, unwilling to let John do it, knowing his own work was neater and would leave less noticeable scars. He felt each of the twenty-eight stitches as keenly as if the needle was puncturing his own skin, a mantra of ‘mine, my fault, my own’ running a marathon through his head.

He’d watched over Sam for two harrowing days, soothing fevers with cool washcloths and numbing pain with Vicodin. Sam had been hurt before on hunts – bumps, bruises, concussions and once a broken ankle – but never like this. It didn’t happen…Dean didn’t _allow_ it to happen. Except this time it did. Dean had ignored everything in him that screamed it was a bad idea for Sam to be involved, hadn’t listened to the instincts that had kept him alive more times than not and Sam had paid the price. He’d slumped in relief when day broke on the third day along with Sam’s fever. Hazel eyes, still muddied with uncertainty and the lingering medication but clearer than they’d been in days, hadn’t been open more than an hour before Dad was packing his things and expecting Dean to do the same.

Dean had balked. Sam was better but he still needed care. Someone to fetch and carry for him, make sure he ate and slept, make sure he healed. Someone to watch him breathe and count his heartbeats. Dad had laid out his argument, apparently prepared for Dean’s reaction. Dean grit his teeth and listened to John logically and matter-of-factly list the reason he had to go. Sam was on the mend and the hunt couldn’t wait. Sam wasn’t going to die but other people would. Eventually it was Sam, sweet, unselfish, stupid Sam, who cast the deciding vote, telling Dean to go with their Dad. He caved under the combined force of Sam’s urging and John’s demanding. He hastily threw his things together and left, pausing at the door to promise Sam that he’d be back in two days.

He’d kept his promise, barely. He’d hurried back, taking advantage of the deserted country roads to open Baby’s engine up and let her run, let her carry them back to their Sam. She’d done good, getting them back in just under 48 hours. He took his time gathering his things, shutting the car door and trunk carefully to keep the noise down. Sam wasn’t standing on the rotting front porch waiting for him so the rumble of Baby’s engine hadn’t woken him and Dean wanted it to stay that way. He quietly made his way into the house, elbow nudging the front door shut, and dropped his things next to the couch. From where he stood he could see Sam’s shoed feet hanging off the edge of the bed through the open door at the end of the hall, the streetlight from outside casting the entire house in a ghostly light.

He walked down the hallway, frowning at the tattered Chuck Taylors and wondering where Sam had gone when he was supposed to be resting. As he neared, he could make out the spot on the ball of both soles where the rubber and tread was worn from repeated use. It seemed bigger than before and Dean made a mental note to pick up a new pair at the next Goodwill they passed. Standing in the doorway, he took in Sam on the bed. His little brother was dressed in a pair of jeans, too short at the ankle, and an old white t-shirt, one of Dean’s that had been washed to paper-thinness. Both garments were smudged with paint splotches and even in the sodium wash he could see sweat stains along the back and armpits.

_What the hell had the kid been doing?_

Dean marched to the bed, anger at Sam for not listening and staying put itching on the tip of his tongue, but he stuttered to a halt beside the mattress. Even from there he could feel the heat emanating from Sam. He reached out, fingers brushing sweat-coated skin that burned at the touch.

“Sam?” He gently shook Sam’s shoulder.

“Sam!” His voice was more authoritative, a timber Sam would respond to from the deadest sleep, and his hand was more forceful.

He flipped on the light and turned Sam onto his back. Sam whimpered at the change in position, but his eyelids barely fluttered.

“Sammy?” Dean’s voice came out weedy, fingers carefully swiping damp locks from a sweaty, sun-scalded forehead. Looking him over, Dean could see the burn covered not only Sam’s face but the exposed portions of his neck and arms as well. Sam’s lips were chapped, the skin flaking and hanging loose in places where Sam had bit at it. “What the hell did you do?”

The phone on the nightstand rang, the jingling sound cracking the silence like a gunshot and causing Dean to jerk in surprise. _Who the hell was calling this late?_ Reaching for the receiver, he glanced at the clock, fully prepared to give the caller shit for the late hour, shocked to see it was just after eight. His exhaustion from the hunt coupled with his worry for Sam had made it feel hours later.

Sam twitched as the jarring sound rent the air again and Dean laid his hand over his brother’s chest to soothe him, yanking the receiver from the cradle by the spiral cord to stop the noise. Fumbling around, he managed to wedge the hard plastic between his head and shoulder. “Hello,” he answered absently, mind still preoccupied with why his brother was lying in bed fully dressed and sporting the worst sunburn he’d had since that July they spent in Arizona a few years back.

“Dean?” Charlie’s voice crackled through the speaker, words almost obscured by static. Dean jostled the cord, past its prime and as persnickety as a retiree in a neighborhood full of kids, until the static cleared and he could hear his boss clearly.

“…the old bat wasn’t happy about it, but the job’s done.”

“Wait.” Dean shook his head, brows pulled tight in confusion. “Who are you talking about? What job?”

“The job I talked to your kid brother about this morning. Mrs. Farber’s shed?” There was a pause that Dean vaguely registered as Charlie waiting for him to respond. He grunted a non-committal noise and watched his hand rise and fall on Sam’s chest. It seemed…odd somehow.

“Any-hoo, I know that you weren’t the one who did the job. Trust me, Mrs. Farber was quick to let me know she expects her favorite handyman to be back on Monday.” Dean could hear Charlie’s eye-roll. It was a poorly kept secret that Mrs. Farber fancied him in that creepy married cougar kind-of-way. “I got to say, kid did a damn good job. Got it done and well before Mrs. Snooty-britches wanted.”

That got Dean’s attention. “He finished it?” Dean had seen the construction crews working on the behemoth and had already told the overly-attentive Mrs. Farber that it would take him two days to complete. He stared at his hand harder. It was moving too fast, too shallow.

“Yep. Hey, is he doing okay? The gardener came up to me and said he thought the kid wasn’t looking so hot before he left.” There was genuine concern in Charlie’s voice and possibly a little guilt.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean tilted his head, eyes narrowed and focused on Sam’s breathing. “He’s, um, just tired. Look, Charlie, I need to go, get him fed and in bed.”

“Oh, sure. Do what you gotta do man. I’ll see you on Monday.”

Dean was grateful that Charlie hung up before he could respond. Looking at Sam, he wasn’t sure he that could honestly say yes he’d see the other man on Monday. Now that the room was quiet again, he could hear the soft crackling wheeze of Sam’s breathing and feel the rattle beneath his palm.

_Shit!_

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean cajoled and wrestled Sam into a sitting position, the younger man whining pitifully. “I know, I know,” Dean soothed. “We have to get your clothes off.”

“D’n?” Sam’s head lolled on his shoulders, arms working jerkily in an attempt to help remove his clothes.

“Yeah, Sammy. I got you.” He kept his voice low, calming, refusing to let his unease show, afraid that Sam might sense it even through his fevered haze. He stripped off Sam’s shirt, Sam’s efforts hindering more than helping, and let Sam’s forehead rest against his shoulder. His eyes landed on Sam’s back and he winced. The shirt was threadbare, should have been thrown out when it became too small for Dean, but Sam loved the softness of the fabric and refused to get rid of it. Dean could understand why his brother had worn it today, the material light and breathable, unfortunately, it wasn’t thick enough to keep the sun’s harsh rays out. Sam’s back was a shade lighter than the parts of his body receiving the brunt of the sunshine. He started a list in his head of things he needed to pick up from the store – more aloe topping the list.

“Sammy?” He leaned Sam back, cupping his face between his hands. Glassy hazel eyes slowly blinked at him. “Why didn’t you tell Charlie I wasn’t here?”

“Said hafta let,” Sam sighed, the words seeming to exhaust him, “you go. Need money.” He licked his dry lips, tongue prodding a spot where the tender skin was cracked, and his eyelids fluttered shut. The split began to bleed and Sam grimaced at the taste of blood.

“Sam,” Dean exhaled exasperatedly, shaking his head. It was times like these that Dean realized what a shit life they led sometimes. “Lay back.” He lowered Sam to the bed and started on unbuttoning his pants, eyes worrying over the way Sam shivered when his overheated skin met the cool sheets.

“Ssshh, ssshh, Sammy. It’s okay.” His gaze trailed to his fingers but stopped before reaching the waistband. The normally pristine gauze covering Sam’s side was a jaundiced yellow, the edges of the tape holding it down, curled and dirty. Swallowing, he tugged the loose corner of tape, the adhesive barely resisting before giving in, and let his eyes slide shut at the sour smell that was released. Sam had pulled a few of the stitches and the skin around the sites was crusted with dried blood, the areas themselves oozing a thick yellow-green discharge.

“Sammy? Sammy!”

Sam’s opened his eyes, effort clearly visible in the way the eyelids twitched before sliding slowly up. Hazel rolled and fought to focus. Dean ran a soothing hand through Sam’s sweaty bangs before petting it down his sunburned face. “Did you take the antibiotics?”

Sam stared up at him listlessly, blinking languidly. His gaze drifted to the empty amber bottle on the nightstand then slid back to Dean. “Out,” he croaked tiredly.

Dean’s eyes widened. While packing for the hunt, he’d been so wrapped up in his anger over leaving Sam that he hadn’t thought to check how much medicine Sam had left. He looked down at Sam’s side, at the obvious signs of infection, and, tight-lipped, nodded to himself. He moved to the dresser, snatched up clean clothes for Sam and moved to the bathroom to drop them by the sink before returning to his brother’s side.

“Come on, Sammy. Up you get.” He helped Sam into a seated position forcing himself to ignore the muted whimpers and whines that Sam tried to keep in. He murmured soothing nonsense and encouraging words as he cajoled Sam to his feet. It was with a silent thanks for quick reflexes that he caught a seriously unsteady Sam as the sick teenager’s knees buckled. Scooping his brother up bridal style, Dean held him close to his body and carried him to the bathroom. It took a little finagling but he was able to sit down on the commode, Sam cradled in his lap like the child he’d outgrown being years ago. Sam was limp in his arms with his face snugged against Dean’s neck, his only movement the slow drained rise and fall of his chest and eyelids.

Flipping the finicky tap and watching the sputter as trapped air in the lines escaped, he absently stroked a hand down Sam’s back, the boy shivering in his arms. He swiped his wrist through the running water to check the temperature and was hit with a wave of nostalgia, memories of countless bath times flicking through his mind. The water was shocking against his skin, not cold but blocks away from the neighborhood of hot.

He pushed Sam’s head from his shoulder, taking his face between calloused palms. “Listen, buddy.” Dean’s thumb smoothed an arc over defined cheekbones, hazel muddied by fever staring at him passive and trusting. “Not gonna lie. This is gonna suck, but I gotta do it.”

Sam slowly looked at the half-full tub, seeming to notice it for the first time and whimpered piteously as understanding dawned. Dean shifted them, working one side of Sam’s boxers down then the other until the teen was naked. Sam’s skinny arms crossed over his lap awkwardly in an attempt to protect his modesty.

“I’m sorry, Sammy. I gotta,” he repeated. “You’re burning up and I need to cool you down before I can leave to get more medicine.”

There was a Mom and Pop general store complete with a pharmacy down on Main. He’d cased it when they first blew into town. You never knew when you’d need to get your hands on something more than Tylenol and hospitals weren’t an option – like when your baby brother was sporting infected claw marks. This was a quiet backwater town, where a deadbolt was considered the height of security. Dean knew that with a set of lockpicks and two minutes, he could have what Sam needed and be back in no time.

He scooted forward on the toilet lid and Sam weakly clawed at his shirt, trying desperately to cling to his brother. “Ssssh, ssssh,” Dean murmured, reaching up to gently pluck Sam’s fingers from the fabric. He lifted Sam into the tub, the younger man flailing in an attempt to get out when his flushed skin met the cool water.

“Sammy? Sammy! Don’t fight me. You need this.” Dodging frantic limbs, he grabbed Sam’s hands and waited until panicked eyes met his. “You need this.” Dean watched the fight leave Sam’s body and sighed inwardly. He smoothed circles over Sam’s chest, the touch and calming words distracting the younger man, comforting him as Dean snagged a washcloth from the shelf over the commode. He dipped the cloth in the water and squeezed it over tanned skin and lank hair.

Sam watched him, little boy trust shining through watery eyes and features pulling into a wince when the water sluiced over the inflamed wound on his side. Shivers coursed through his frame and his teeth chattered as his gaze beseeched Dean.

Dean kept his movements methodical, mechanical, mind focused on the task at hand and not the naked body benefitting from his ministrations. Over the past few years he’d noticed Sam’s physique more and more, gained an unbrotherly appreciation of the budding muscles and developing features, and, as time passed, what started as disturbing observations had, like Sam, grown and matured. He made it a point to not be exposed to Sam unclothed any more than necessary and through some happy coincidence it was around that same time Sam reached that point in puberty where privacy had become a priority. In the last week, with Sam’s injuries and need for care, Dean had been confronted with more of his brother than he was comfortable with. Dean indulged from time-to-time in a little fantasy. He’d let his mind wander when Sam came out of the bathroom in a towel and jerked off in the dead of the night when snippets of those guilty pleasures replayed in his mind with Sam’s soft breaths two feet away, but while Sam was fevered and sick was not the appropriate time for those musings.

When Sam’s skin felt only mildly warm to the touch instead of alarmingly hot, Dean scooped him up from the now cold water, dressed him in the clean sleep pants and bundled him off to bed. He carefully smoothed aloe into Sam’s sunburned skin and cleaned the gashes on his side, replacing the sutures that had popped. He slathered antibiotic cream over the stitches and covered them with sterile gauze. Sam floated in and out of coherency, once looking at Dean and muttering miserably, “Don’ feel good.”

“I know, Sammy.” He carded fingers through Sam’s hair. “I know.” Dean helped him drink some water to wash down a few Tylenol and continued his soothing sweeps over Sam’s damp mop until lashes fluttered shut and didn’t reopen.

“God, Sammy.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to Sam’s still-too-warm forehead, savoring the sigh Sam gave at the contact. He cupped his hand to Sam’s neck, the younger man leaning into the touch like a flower deprived of warmth turning toward the sun.

This couldn’t happen anymore. Dean wouldn’t _let_ it happen anymore. Sam shouldn’t have been left here alone especially when he was still recovering. None of this would have happened if Dean had listened to his instincts from the jump. He’d ignored them, allowed Dad to coerce him into dismissing them, and Sam had suffered. It was becoming a common theme, returning from a hunt and Sam coming out with the lion’s share of the injuries.

Dean leaned his forehead against Sam’s, noses barely brushing. “Sorry, Sammy.”

The ringing of the old phone was startling in the intimate quiet and Dean practically lunged for the receiver. He was really beginning to hate that old dinosaur. He breathed a relieved sigh when Sam only shifted slightly at the noise.

“Hello?” He picked up the phone and carried it over to rest on his thigh as he settled on the other bed.

“Dean?” The gruff voice popped down the aged spiral cord.

“Bobby?” Dean frowned at the receiver before placing it back to his ear. “Everything okay?”

“That’s what I was calling about. Seeing how Sam was.” Dean could hear the rustling of paper and could imagine the older hunter shuffling books and leafs of paper on his dusty desk.

Dean looked over when Sam moved and whimpered. “Um, not so good.” He quickly relayed everything he knew – Sam’s stupid selflessness early today to Dean finding him sunburned, wheezing and feverish with infection. His shoulders drooped with the retelling, the post-hunt exhaustion coupled with the long drive back and the guilt over leaving Sam when he so obviously needed him was overwhelmingly oppressive.

“Damnit,” Bobby growled, “I told that idjit father of yours to keep an eye on that boy. Near drownings can easily lead to pneumonia and with the claw marks, Sam was more susceptible.”

“This never would have happened if I hadn’t left him.” Dean blamed himself out loud for the first time, twisting his finger around the rubber coated spirals.

“Don’t you go taking that burden. Sam never should have been on that beach in the first place. Your fool father didn’t listen when I warned him the lore on Qualupaliks wasn’t concrete and Sam might be in its target range.”

Dean’s head jerked up at that. “You told Dad that thing might go after Sammy?”

“I told him there was a chance.”

“That’s not what he said.” Dean stood up, his anger urging him to his feet, excess energy demanding action. “He said you were sure it only wanted little kids. He said you were positive it wouldn’t go after him.” Dean tried to pace but was stopped by the tethered phone. His jaw ticked and the cheap plastic base creaked in protest in his tight grip. “He said he would never put Sam in danger. He said Sammy would be safe.”

“Dean,” Bobby sighed, glass tinkling and liquid pouring, the older man looking for something in the amber depths.

“Save your breath, Bobby.” Dean’s eyes flicked to the bed when Sam shifted fitfully, sensing the growing tension in the room. Dean sighed deeply trying to control his feelings. Sam rolled, moving on to his side, and mewled pitifully before turning on his back. Dean deflated in the face of his brother’s pain and sat gingerly on the edge of Sam’s bed, hand on Sam’s chest. “I almost lost him, Bobby.” A midnight confession whispered across aging phone lines in search of reconciliation from the only father that mattered.

“I know, son.” Bobby took a healthy pull from the two fingers of Scotch. “You saved him though.”

Dean closed his eyes and licked his lips, feeling unworthy of the offered absolution. In the dark behind his eyelids, Sam’s wheezing surrounded him, vibrated off his skin and rattle around his head. “I gotta go.”

There was another heavy silence and he could feel Bobby’s need to say more, press his belief of Dean’s innocence, but settled on, “Get your brother some medicine or you’ll be calling me from the hospital next.”

“Yes, sir. Leaving now,” Dean’s voice lost the vulnerability that had colored it, the reassuring weight of an order, a purpose, restoring his confidence.

“Take care and call if you need me.” Bobby infused as much feeling as he could into the words.

“Yes, sir.”

“I mean it, Dean. You don’t have to take all the burden yourself,” Bobby continued, knowing when it came to Sam, Dean would take it all on and beg for more.

“Yes, sir,” Dean repeated. Bobby didn’t understand. To Dean, Sam wasn’t a burden – had never been – he was...everything. The single reason for everything he was and everything he did. From working to buy groceries to feed Sam to training to be better to protect him, it all boiled down to his brother.

There was a gruff sound and then dial tone. Dean hung up, pulled the covers higher over Sam’s chest and checked his brother was sleeping before slipping quietly from the room.

 

 

*****

 

Sam woke to an empty room and an overpowering sense of loss. He could have sworn Dean had been there. He searched his fuzzy memories, remembered Dean’s warm hands and reassuring words.

“Dean?” His raspy voice went unanswered and he pushed up from the mattress, groaning at the pain in his side. Twisting to get out of bed, he gasped when the pain escalated, hand slapping down on the nightstand and knocking into the phone.

He stared at the avocado green device, a trickle of mismatched words and disjointed sentences filtering through his mind.

_Yes sir. Leaving now._

Dean had been here, but Dad had called him away again. _No_! Sam wanted him here, needed him here. Maybe he hadn’t left yet.

“Dean?” He used the nightstand to help himself up, crying out and hunching over as the pain made him instantly nauseous. Something was definitely wrong. He stumbled out the door and down the hall on wobbly legs, calling for his brother. He barely made it to the living room when the hand bracing him against the wall slipped and he fell to the floor.

 

 

*****

 

Dean pushed the door open, pocketing his keys and adjusting the plastic bag in his other hand. Tom and Vera Lewis owned a well-stocked establishment with the most basic of locks. Dean’s estimate of two minutes to get in had been overly generous. He’d picked the lock, gotten what he needed and was back in the Impala in just over double that, a small stack of bills left behind on the counter to assuage some of his conscious.

He went into the tiny kitchen and set the bag on the table. The rickety chairs called to him, promising his tired mind and body relief but he knew once he sat down the fatigue would get the better of him. He needed to tend to Sam first then he could collapse. Deciding to check on his brother, he stepped into the darkened hall and stumbled over something on the floor.

Sam was sprawled haphazardly across the dingy carpet, the slight bruise on his cheek attesting to the fact that he hadn’t gotten there gently. Dean knelt down and carded his fingers through Sam’s hair. “You’re killing me here, kiddo.”

Dean carefully picked Sam up, stumbling slightly under the added weight as he stood, and carried the younger man back to bed. Sam roused when he was laid down, squinting blood-shot eyes at his older brother.

“You came back,” Sam whispered and Dean’s heart broke at the disbelief coloring the words.

“Of course I did. Apparently can’t leave you alone for ten minutes. Your like an overgrown child, can’t be left to your own devices.” He rubbed his thumb over Sam’s jaw, the fond gesture taking some of the sting out of the jibe.

Sam’s forehead wrinkled and Dean was once again amazed how the familiar gesture shifted the boy’s entire hairline. He might be the king of the one raised brow, but he never could do that. He’d tried.

“But Dad called,” Sam stuttered looking over at the phone like it had lied to him. “You said you were leaving.” Sam’s eyes slid shut. “ ‘S gonna be pissed.”

It took Dean a minute to puzzle out what Sam was talking about, even wondering if Dad had called while he was out, but eventually he understood that Sam thought it was Dad on the phone earlier. “Sam that was Bobby. I told him I was leaving to get you more medicine.”

Sam didn’t open his eyes, but nodded slightly. “ ‘Kay. Don’t wan’ Dad mad at you cuz of…” The words trailed off as sleep pulled him under.

Dean poked him gently in the ribs and received an irritated, pitiful whine that led to a rattling cough. “Stay awake for me, Sammy. Just for a minute,” he assured when Sam whimpered. “You need to take some pills.”

Dean quickly got the pilfered antibiotics and a large glass of water, holding Sam up so he could take them. He started to get up, but a kitten-weak grasp on his wrist stopped him.

“Stay,” Sam mumbled. “Please.” The last word was managed around a yawn and Dean was once again reminded of a younger Sam, sick and begging for a small token of affectionate comfort.

Dean was past tired, left it in the dust hours back, and the empty side of Sam’s bed looked awfully inviting.

“Okay, Sammy.” He patted Sam’s hand still holding him and stood, disrobing down to his boxer shorts. He slid into bed beside Sam who curled into him. His skin broke out in a sweat, Sam’s sunburn and fever amping his naturally hot nature to make Dean overly warm. The skin on skin contact did things to Dean and he angled his hips away to avoid an embarrassing situation, all the while chastising his reaction when his brother was in need.

“Thank you,” Sam sighed. He rolled his head back to look at Dean’s face. “Sure Dad’s not mad?”

“Yes, Sammy.” Dean tucked Sam’s face under his chin. “When I left Dad he was headed to Gulf Port chasing some thing or another. Everything’s fine. Just get some sleep.” He scratched his fingers against Sam’s scalp, smiling at the shiver it elicited.

Sam’s breathing was slowing down, sleep nipping at his heels. “Don’t wan’ him to hate you like he does me,” he slurred into Dean’s collarbone, the brush of lips causing Dean to shiver this time.

“Dad doesn’t hate you, Sammy,” Dean answered without thought, “or me for that matter.”

Sam nodded his head, face nuzzling Dean’s neck. “Does,” he insisted. “Blames me for Mom. Sometimes think he wishes I’d died not her.”

“That’s not true, Sam.” Dean held the back of Sam’s head against his chest, his other arm tightening around his brother’s skinny waist. Just the thought of Sammy gone – dead – had his heart pounding. “It’s just the fever talking. Go to sleep.”

Dean listened as Sam’s wheezy breaths slowed and deepened, the little whistling snore he did when he was too tired emerging. Despite his own exhaustion, Dean laid awake staring at the water-stained ceiling. His conversation with Bobby and Sam’s semi-lucid remarks had planted a seed of doubt in his mind that was growing.

_Did Dad have Sam’s well-being in mind?_

His mind hazed, tendrils of sleep and Sam’s warmth luring him down. Lazy thoughts of the last few hunts rolled through his groggy mind. The werewolf in Michigan where Dean had been sent ahead to scout only to come running back at Sam’s scream, his brother crumpled on the ground after being tossed into a tree. The ghoul in Ohio who’d slipped passed Dad and had taken two bites out of Sam’s shoulder before Dean could get in from his check of the perimeter. The salt and burn in Savannah, Sam with a concussion from the ghost pushing him down the stairs while Dean cleared the lower level, their Dad at the upstairs landing with an odd look on his face.

Sam made a soft sound and curled tighter into Dean, fingers tangled in his shirt and nose teasing a tingling path beneath Dean’s jaw. Dean tightened his embrace and dropped a tender, lingering kiss to Sam’s temple. The younger man sighed something that sounded like Dean’s name and Dean felt wet warmth against the sensitive skin of his neck. Shock jerked his head back and he stared down at Sam’s face, jaundiced in the diffuse light of the street lamp with eyes at half-mast and a content grin on his lips.

“Sammy?”

“Dean,” Sam breathed, hand releasing its hold on Dean’s shirtfront to slide up and around Dean’s neck, fingers slotting into the short, fine hairs at his nape. Sam pulled him forward, the sum of the older boy’s mass helpless against the butterfly pressure.

Dean’s mind could see what was coming, knew in his heart what was about to happen, but neither did anything to stop it. Quite the opposite actually. Both turned control over to his traitorous self-serving body that leaned toward the inevitable.

Traversing those scant inches seemed to happen in an instant and take an eternity. Sam’s lips were scratchy from being chapped and too warm as the fever began to edge back in, but it didn’t matter to Dean. He dove in eagerly swiping the bitter, stale taste of sleep and sickness away until only Sam was left. Iced fire ran down his spine to pool low in his belly, diffusing out to fill up all the empty places Dean didn’t know he had. He lost himself in the spit slick slide of lips and the soft caress of tongues, hands ghosting over exposed chests and arms. He felt the rattle of the chest plastered against his even before the interrupting cough percolated from Sam’s lungs. The meaty sound sobered Dean’s lust and he smoothed a hand down Sam’s back as the other boy curled over, whole form convulsing with the wracking coughs, tiny whines sneaking out on each gulping inhale. Gasping for breath, Sam fell back on the mattress, clutching his side with tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

“It’s okay, Sammy. Ssshh.” Dean tried to shush Sam’s pained noises and felt like an ass for doing it, firmly believing his brother had earned the right to make whatever hurt sounds he wanted. Dean wiped the wetness from Sam’s cheeks and kissed the lines of pain from between his eyes.

He maneuvered them, coaxing his brother onto his side with gentle words, and spooned up behind him. With a quick glance at the time, he calculated how long until Sam’s next dose and nestled down into the pillow. He slotted his nose through silk-soft hair and pressed his lips to the skin there, licking away the salty tang of sweat. He massaged Sam’s chest until the rigid form in his arms relaxed and slipped into sleep then he followed right behind.

 

 

*****

 

Dean stood in the depressing excuse of a kitchen among a mismatch of avocado and harvest gold relics from decades past and watched the drip of the coffeemaker into the decanter, willing it to hurry up. He didn’t sleep sound on the best of nights and last night had only managed to garner snatches of sleep between bouts of Sam coughing and plying him with more medicine. Sam was currently in the middle of the longest stretch of rest he’d had all night. Dean had gotten up not long ago, the humidity-heavy air and the heat radiating off Sam conspiring to keep him from falling back to sleep after Sam’s last dose.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, fingers lightly tracing his lips, the memory of Sam’s against them making them tingle. Okay, maybe the coughing and the heat weren’t the only things preventing him from sleeping. Flipping off the maker, he poured coffee into his waiting mug and lifted the cup to his mouth for a tentative sip of the hot liquid. Turning around, he started at the sight of Sam leaning against the door jamb, sleep tousled and miserable. He hissed, his cautious sip turning into a surprised gulp and scalding his tongue. Carefully setting the mug down on the counter, he sucked on his burnt tongue.

“What are you doing out of bed?” The words came out muffled, but his tone still managed to be harsher than he intended.

Sam twitched, grimacing when his hand nervously skated over his chest. The aloe and his natural predisposition to tan had lessened the burn, the skin no longer the vibrant red of yesterday but still a tender pink. Dean would be half-way to peeling if their situations were reversed.

“Weren’t sure you were really here.” His voice was rough and raw, throat abused from the continual coughing. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the casing, a deep exhale of exhaustion escaping him. Dean thought it had to be sheer will keeping him on his feet.

“Yeah, well, here I am in live Technicolor.” Dean held his arms out to the side, worried eyes focused on the younger man. Sam’s body sagged with each breath, visibly deflating before Dean’s eyes. He hurried to Sam’s side and gathered him up, supporting his weight.

“Had crazy dreams,” Sam mumbled, melting into Dean’s arms.

“Clowns or midgets?” Dean guided him back down the hall, worry doubling at Sam’s lack of protest.

Sam settled his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, his gentle breath tickling over the same spot he’d kissed the night before and Dean barely suppressed a shudder at the combination of sensation and memory. He felt Sam’s ribs expand against his as the younger man took a deep, weary breath then nearly tripped over him when Sam steps suddenly faltered.

“What’s wrong, Sammy?” Dean’s urging to get Sam moving again was useless.

Sam pulled back to look at him with frightened eyes. “It wasn’t a dream,” Sam whispered, hazel gone shiny with unshed tears, fingers unconsciously tightening on Dean’s forearms.

Dean’s stomach twisted. Sam remembered what they’d done…what Dean had done _to him_. “Sammy…”

Sam’s fingers dug in, nails sinking into flesh. “Dean,” he gasped, “I – I’m so sorry. Please. I – I…” His breathing sped up, the rattling deepening with each rise and fall of his chest.

“Hey, hey, Sammy.” Dean tugged him closer again, wrapping him in his embrace. “Calm down. Please, calm down.”

Sam tried to bend over, squirming to get out of Dean’s hold even as his hands clung desperately to Dean’s arms. “Let go. Please. I – I,” he took a ragged breath, “I never,” a harsh cough erupted, “I never meant for you…”

Whatever Sam never meant for Dean was lost under a violent coughing fit. Sam struggled to suck strangled breaths in between outbursts.

Dean rubbed his back and held him close until it passed, leaving Sam limp in his arms and panting. He slid his hands up into Sam’s hair and lightly scratched his scalp. “Its okay, Sammy. Nothing’s wrong.” When Sam didn’t respond, he tugged lightly on the long hair. “Look at me.”

Sam buried his face in Dean’s chest and shook his head furiously, heedless of how Dean’s hold pulled at his hair. He mumbled a litany of sorrys into the t-shirt beneath him and Dean could feel warm wetness against his skin.

Deciding to take the matter in hand, Dean cupped his palms on either side of Sam’s face and gently, but firmly moved Sam away. Sam’s eyes were shut tight, lips sucked into his mouth and cheeks streaked with tear tracks. He continued to shake his head back and forth in silent denial.

“Sam, stop!” When Sam wouldn’t stop, Dean did the only thing he could think to do. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sam’s. It had the desired effect – Sam froze, body stiff with shock. Dean moved his mouth over Sam’s slack one, pouring everything into the action, giving it his all. He swiped his tongue over Sam’s mouth, ignoring the catch of scaly skin against his taste buds. The remembered taste made him eager, wanting to rush, but he held back – dialing down the lust so the love showed through. Sam whimpered and Dean felt the moment his little brother gave in, surrendered and fell into the kiss.

Dean kissed him slow and sensual and when they parted, Sam was panting for a different reason. Dean searched tired eyes, thumb tracing the sharp line of cheekbone and skirting under dark smudges. His eyes widened at what he saw on his younger brother’s face, plain for the world to see if it cared to look. Love, devotion, admiration, trust projecting soul deep from Sam’s kaleidoscope eyes. There was so much emotion in that gaze, focused on Dean, it took his breath away. Tears prickled and he leaned in to pepper kisses to Sam’s lips before the betraying tears could fall.

Pressing one last kiss to Sam’s cheek, he smiled. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

He wrapped his arm around Sam’s waist and helped him to the bedroom. Once Sam was settled on the threadbare sheets, Dean checked the gashes on his side. He removed the old gauze and cleaned the area – frowning at the still inflamed and oozing wounds but happy it seemed better than the day before – then reapplying the antibiotic cream and recovering it with new gauze.

Sam drowsily watched him the whole time, wincing at the sting of antiseptic, but gaze never wavering from Dean. He pliantly took the medicine Dean handed him and drank the offered glass of water.

Dean turned to take the glass back to the kitchen and finally drink his surely long-gone cold coffee, but stopped at Sam’s quiet call of his name. He looked down into wretched eyes and remembered how much he hated cold coffee. He bent down and kissed Sam’s forehead, mumbling against the skin. “Just a sec.”

He quickly went to the kitchen and refilled the glass with more water and hurried back to Sam. Setting the full glass on the nightstand, he rounded the bed and climbed in behind his brother, arms surrounding the sick boy. Sam nestled back into Dean, hissing when the movement pulled at this stitches. Dean soothed a hand down his arm and got comfortable. Kissing the back of Sam’s neck, Dean closed his eyes.

“Dean?”

He opened his eyes at Sam’s sleepy slur. “Yeah, Sammy? You need something?”

“Is this for real?” Sam tugged one of Dean’s hands up and pressed a kiss to the knuckles then clasped it hard to his chest. Dean could feel the foreign shape of the bandage under Sam’s shirt and the vibration of infection in his chest.

“Ssshhh, Sammy,” he cooed the words into Sam’s ear, breath rustling the soft hairs there. “Sleep. We’ll talk about it when you’re better.”

Sam wiggled and fidgeted until Dean was forced to loosen his hold and Sam could roll on his back. “Dean.” Voice shot to shit from coughing, Sam was still able to infuse the stubborn tone he was known for.

Dean stared down on that beloved face and knew he should lie. He should tell Sam they couldn’t do this – wouldn’t even have to say the reasons because Sam already knew them or he wouldn’t be questioning it – but he couldn’t. He opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. He’d lied to people all his life, built his identity on a foundation of half-truths and deception, but there was one person he’d always been truthful with and that was Sam. He’d avoid, misdirect or flat out refuse to answer, but never lied and he wasn’t going to start now.

“Yeah, Sammy. This is for real.” He kissed Sam chastely, pulling back when another round of coughing overtook Sam. “Roll off your back, Sam.” He shoved until Sam moved on his side and rubbed until the episode subsided. “Try to get some sleep.”

It was quiet, only Sam’s harsh breathing as he caught his breath. When Sam calmed, Dean began to drift off.

“What about Dad?”

It was so low that Dean almost didn’t hear it. He stalled for time, tracing circles along the nape of Sam’s neck with the tip of his nose. He knew he had to do something about Dad – not just because of the new turn his relationship with Sam had taken, but because he needed to know if Sam and Bobby and his own damn suspicions were right. Taking a breath, his arms tightened slightly around Sam, careful of his side. “Don’t worry about Dad. I’ll take care of it.”

He could feel Sam tense, arguments and questions formulating at the speed of an exceptionally bright mind, so he gently squeezed him. “Rest.”

Like the words flipped a switch, Sam’s body relaxed, his breathing steadily deepening until it fell into the slow rhythm of sleep. Dean closed his eyes and pressed his lips to Sam’s shoulder, inhaling deeply and savoring the spicy smell of Sam he could detect beneath the fever sweat. He listened to the wheezy inhale and exhale and let it lull him to sleep.

 

 

*****

 

“Dean!”

Dean’s eyes popped open at the bellow. Night had fallen while he and Sam slept and the only light filtered in from the living room down the hall. Sam was still in his arms, body heated with the return of his fever, but not with the vengeance it had previously. The younger man stirred when Dean’s name reverberated down the hall again.

A few calming words and a kiss on the temple and Sam was back under enough for Dean to extricate himself and slip out of the room. He pulled the door shut with a quiet snick and made his way down the short hall. Waves of irritation buffeted him with each step, the air thickening with the mood of the waiting man until it felt like it was choking him.

John Winchester stood in the living room, duffel on either side of his boot clad feet. His stubble was thicker from days more concentrated on the hunt than himself. His eyes were cold and steely, but the glassy redness they took on when he drank was thankfully absent. He struck and imposing image, haloed in the weak light from the lamp, arms across his broad chest and a thunderous look on his face. There was no doubt in Dean’s mind as to why John’s name was whispered by the things they hunted. He was scary as fuck.

“Boy, don’t ever make me call you twice again.”

“Sorry, sir.” The words fell from his lips and his head bowed without permission, the automatic response to that disappointed tone in his Dad’s voice.

“Grab your gear. Travis called. He needs me up in Little Rock so I need you in Gulf Port.” John bent down and snagged a paper clipped stack of newspaper articles from the side pocket of his bag and tossed them on the back of the couch. “This is everything I have on it. Simple salt and burn. You shouldn’t have a problem.”

He nudged the duffel to his right, the bag emitting a metallic sound as it shifted. “Tell your brother to clean these and when he’s done, he can start on the laundry.” He pointedly looked at the other bag. “If he’s too hurt to hunt, he can at least make himself useful.” He checked his watch. “I gotta head out. You should get on the road too. Travis is…”

“No!” The word surprised Dean as much as it appear to have John.

“Excuse me?” John’s eyes narrowed and if Dean thought he was scary before, he was downright terrifying now. “What did you say?”

“I,” Dean licked his lips, the taste of Sam’s skin lingering there and reminding him of why he’d objected. Taking a fortifying breath, he squared his shoulders. “I said no. I’m not going to Gulf Port. Sam’s sick. He needs me here. You’ll have to find someone else.”

John’s face twitched, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “Your brother is fine, Dean.”

“Don’t you even care?” Dean’s pulse thundered in his veins, his suspicions growing and making him feel sick to his stomach.

“Sam’s not the first hunter to get hurt on the job and I can assure you he won’t be the last.” John checked his watch and his weight shifted from foot-to-foot impatiently.

“Dad, it’s bad.” Dean’s eyes took in his father’s mannerism, his obvious need to be gone from here. “Sammy could die.”

John’s face hardened, his eyes chips of flint in his weathered face. “Sam’s not going to die.” His tone was odd like it didn’t matter to him either way and Dean’s blood ran cold. “Other people – good people, innocent people – depend on us. He just needs to suck it up and quit being a selfish pussy about it. And you need to stop coddling him. The world does not revolve around Samuel Winchester no matter how much he whines. ”

“Yeah, Sam’s a pussy.” Dean clenched his teeth against his rising anger. “You know what he did yesterday? He went into work for me because Charlie said he’d have to fire me if I didn’t show up. Ended up painting a shed the size of a garage. He popped some of his stitches and came home burned all to hell. When I got here last night he was burning up with a fever and brewing the beginnings of what I sure as shit hope isn’t pneumonia. So, yeah,” Dean nodded his head, lip curling up in disgust. “If dragging your ass – still healing from being turned into mincemeat and nearly goddamn drowning to death - five miles to schlep paint on a building so your brother can keep his fucking low level job, the one that actually puts food on the table because your father can’t be bothered to, is selfish,” Dean gulped a breath of air, “then, yeah, Sammy is the most selfish person I know.”

John’s expression was stone cold. “Mind your manners, boy.”

“Mind your family, Dad,” Dean seethed, protectiveness forcing out the poison of obedience from his mind and heart. “Or I will.”

“What are you going to do, Dean?” John’s manner was deceptively at ease, a cobra hypnotizing its prey to lure it closer. “You gonna take poor, sweet Sammy from me?” A cruel smirk twisted the edge of his mouth. “He’s got you so wrapped around his finger you can’t see him for what he is. There are things you don’t know about your brother, Dean.”

“And what’s that?” Dean spat back.

“He’s a time-bomb, Dean. An evil, ticking time-bomb and one day he’s going to go off and burn the whole damn world down. He’s the reason your mother is dead. As good as murdered her himself. Six months-old and he already had blood on hands.”

There was complete conviction in John’s expression, total belief in what he was saying. Dean choked on a breath. His Dad thought Sam was evil, had killed Mom.

John’s smirk grew into a hard grin, devoid of warmth. “The demon wasn’t after your mother, Dean. He wanted Sam. Can you think of any other reason a demon would want your brother?”

Dean’s chest heaved, the heavy weight of fear crushing and restricting. He licked his trembling bottom lip and took an unsteady breath in the hopes of calming his breath. “If he’s evil, then why haven’t you done anything about him?”

His father tilted his head to the side, the hardness on his face melting into a look of false hurt. “He’s my son. I’d never do anything to hurt him.”

All the breath in Dean’s lungs whooshed out of him, eyes widening in disbelief and realization. That was exactly what he’d been told right before leaving to hunt the Qalupalik. Sam’s injuries made so much more sense now. John was putting Sam in dangerous situations and then sitting back in the hopes the monster of the week would do his dirty work. And every time, he made sure Dean wasn’t there, had separated them, because he knew that Dean would do anything in his power to protect Sam.

“Why?” He shook his head slightly back and forth. The two images of his Dad – the man he thought he knew, the penultimate hero, and the man standing before him – were at war in his mind.

“Because you wouldn’t understand. You’re blinded by him. I knew if I did it myself, you’d never forgive me and I refuse to lose you because of him.” His gaze flickered to the closed door at the end of the hall, nose wrinkled like he’d smelt something bad.

Dean shifted unconsciously, slotting his body between his father and the room where Sam slept. “You’re crazy. Sam’s as evil as a bag full of puppies.”

John face morphed into a knowing expression. “This is exactly what I was talking about. That bastard has you completely snowed. Your brother is destined to become the king of Hell. I’ve read the prophecy myself. It’s not a matter of if he goes darkside, but when. And when he goes, it’ll be all the way. Then some hunter is gonna have to carry around the guilt of killing him.”

Dean growled, low and threatening. “I’ll tear apart anyone who tries to lay a finger on him.”

“Even if it’s me.”

“Then so be it.” Dean transferred his weight, moving a little closer to the back of the couch.

“So you’re willing to unleash what he’s going to become on the world? Innocent people?” John looked like had won the argument that Dean’s argument had been negated with that one question.

He was wrong. “The world can fucking burn for all I care along with everyone in it. Anyone hurts Sam and I’ll light the goddamn match.”

The older man’s face fell. “I can’t let you do that, son.” His arm whipped around his back, grabbing for the gun hidden there at the same time Dean shoved his arm behind the back cushion on the couch, coming back up with Sam’s Taurus. A moment of gratitude for being taught to always have a weapon in reach was quickly followed by how insane it was that they’d had to learn that lesson.

John’s arm slowly came around, hand spread wide to show that he was unarmed. “You gonna shoot me, Dean?”

Dean’s hand was steady, aim never belying the emotions rampaging through him. “Not unless you make me. Take out your gun. Two fingers only,” Dean warned, thumb cocking the gun menacingly. “Toss it on the couch. Then kick the weapon duffel here.”

He watched as his father slowly reach behind him and pull his gun from its hiding place in his waistband. “Don’t test me,” he snarled, seeing John consider tossing the gun closer to his side of the couch.

John sighed and the gun landed on the couch cushion nearest Dean. He nudged the bag over until Dean was able to dip down, gun never wavering, to grab the straps and pull it all the way to him. Dean reached blindly over the couch back and picked up John’s gun, tucking it in the open flap of the duffel. “Sit,” he commanded, jerking his chin in the direction of the kitchen chairs.

John considered him for a long moment before eventually moving over to the straight back chair. Dean snagged a coil of rope from the duffel he’d dropped in the living room the night before and moved behind John. “You know I’m going to look for him. I won’t stop. Just keep searching even if I have to go to Hell to find him.”

“And I’ll be right there, standing between you and him.” Dean quickly tied him to the chair, checking the bonds and ensuring that the knots weren’t within reach of knowledgeable, nimble fingers. He tested the ropes, knowing every trick John would employ to get free.

“You’re really choosing him?” For the first time, John’s words held a hint of uncertainty.

“It’s always been him.” The words were the last thing John heard before the butt of the gun landed squarely on the back of his head and the world went dark.

 

 

*****

 

“Sammy? Sammy!” Dean gently shook Sam’s shoulder.

Sam blinked up at his brother, the room was dim, purplish-blue as the beginnings of morning crept in at the edges. Dean’s face was calm, but Sam could see the animated, manic gleam in his green eyes. “Dean? Wazzamatter?”

Dean petted a hand over Sam’s hair, brushing his bangs away from this face and frowning at the fever still there. “Do you trust me, Sammy?”

“Yeah,” Sam tried to sit up, but a sudden wave of dizziness and the pain in his side kept him down.

Dean looked down at him for a quiet moment. “We have to leave. Right now.”

Without question, Sam shoved weakly at the covers, gritting his teeth against the burning in his side and throbbing in his head. “Lemme pack.”

“Already done, little brother. All I gotta do is carry you to the car and we can head out.” Dean pulled the covers away, setting his gun on the nightstand.

Sam’s face scrunched in confusion at the gun, but didn’t have time to wonder on it further. Dean crouched down and helped him up. They carefully threaded his arms through the sleeves of a wash-worn flannel, not bothering with the buttons. The gun from the nightstand was unceremoniously pressed into his hands, Dean curling his unresponsive fingers around the cool metal. “Dean? What…?”

“I can’t hold it and carry you.” Dean could see fear clouding Sam’s eyes. He tenderly cradled Sam’s head between his hands and looked him straight in the eye. “You trust me, right?” Sam nodded. “If anything, _anything_ , moves, shoot it.”

“Dean, I – I don’t,” his breathing sped up in his anxiety, coughs taking over.

“It’s okay, Sammy. Calm down.” He pressed his hand to Sam’s chest. “It’s…Dad’s back.”

Sam drew a harsh breath. “Dean.” He pawed at Dean’s shirt, feebly, like he did after a hunt and was searching for injuries, the gun forgotten in his lap.

“I’m fine, Sammy.” He clasped Sam’s hands between his and kissed his fingers. “I’m fine.” He rested his forehead against their joined hands, trying to gather his thoughts to the background music of Sam’s infected lungs. “I told him we were leaving. He’s…he’s not happy about it.”

Sam’s eyes flew to the open bedroom door. “Where?” He coughed.

“I, um, I had to tie him up.”

Sam’s eyes widened further.

“And knock him out,” he added, wincing.

Sam’s fingers ghosted lovingly over his cheek then picked up the forgotten gun. “Let’s go.”

Relief flooded through Dean and he stood, giving Sam a quick kiss. He leaned over and picked Sam up. Sam hissed at the flare of pain and looped his left arm around Dean’s neck, resting his on Dean’s shoulder. He carried Sam down the hall and felt his brother stiffen at the low moan from the restrained man in the kitchen.

“Dean!” John called groggily, shaking his head to clear it.

Sam ducked his face out from its hiding place in the crook of Dean’s neck and shook at the glare the eldest Winchester leveled at him. He’d seen traces of the hatred in his father’s eyes but never to this intensity and Sam started to understand why Dean had tied the older man up. John looked like he’d happily kill Sam with his bare hands if they were free.

Dean curled Sam tighter into his chest and whispered soft words in his ear. Giving John one last hard look, he moved toward the door.

“Just because a dog isn’t foaming at the mouth yet, doesn’t mean it doesn’t have rabies,” John yelled at the retreating back. “Put ‘em down the same way, too.”

“Dean?” Sam questioned quietly.

“Later, Sammy,” Dean dropped a kiss to his forehead. “It’s not important.”

“Bullet to the brain!” Dean hurried to the front door, ignoring his father’s screams and the sound of the chair scraping across the linoleum.

He stumbled down the front steps and to the passenger side of the Impala, the door open just as he’d left it before going to get Sam. He settled his brother in the front seat and covered him with the blanket he’d pulled from the trunk. Slamming the door, he jogged around to the driver’s side and slid in behind the wheel.

“Dean…Dad,” Sam stared at him with watery, muddied eyes.

“He’ll be fine,” Dean tugged his brother over, laying Sam’s head on his thigh. “If he’s not free in an hour, then he’s not the hunter I thought he was.” He’s definitely not the father, the man, I thought.

“No,” Sam murmured, nuzzling his face against the denim. “Rabid dog?”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about, Sammy.” He carded the fingers of one hand through Sam’s hair and backed them out of the driveway with the other. Navigating out onto the main road, he looked down to see Sam had already drifted back to sleep. “Never going to let anything happen to you, little brother. Not as long as I’m alive. Promise.”

He steered Baby through town, finding comfort in the roar of her engine. He knew they needed to get out of town, put as much distance away from John as possible, but he had to make one stop first. He placed a call and forty-five minutes later he stood beside the Impala, parked off the side of the road in an upscale neighborhood. A battered Ford F150 was pulling away, _Charlie’s Handyman Service_ , stenciled on the tailgate. His boss had mournfully handed over his earnings, sorry to see him go, but understanding that family came first.

Dean folded the small stack of bills, enough to get where they were going, and tucked them into his back pocket. His hand was on the handle when another vehicle stopped next to them. In the reflection of the window, he could make out Diego’s face framed in the open window of his Blazer.

“You going somewhere, Dean?”

Dean turned and smiled at one of the true friends he’d made here. “Yeah. Me and Sammy are heading out. Think we’ll go stay with my Uncle for a while.” The second call he’d made had been to Bobby. He’d told him everything that had happened with John, their father’s ideas about Sam and their leaving. Bobby had demanded they come to him until they could figure out what to do and without a better idea Dean had agreed. At least there, Sam would be safe.

Diego glanced past him to where Sam was lying across the front seat. “Got yourself a good guy there, Dean.”

Dean looked at Sam and smiled. “Yeah, I think so.”

Turning back, he fidgeted under the Cajun’s intense stare. “He’s your Adeline.” It wasn’t a question.

Dean nodded, well versed in the tragic story of Diego and his lost love.

“Then hold on to him and never let him go.”

“I plan to.”

Diego held out his hand and his shake was firm and calloused. With a last curt nod, he drove toward the Farber house to begin another day of tending the flower gardens his soul mate had loved so much.

Dean slipped back into the car and adjusted Sam until his head was pillowed, once again, on his thigh. As Baby ate up the asphalt, headed north to the only other family they’d known, Dean knew that he was going to have to come clean with Sam about what their Dad had said. Kid was too smart for his own good and Dean couldn’t hope that his fevered mind would forget the words John had spewed at them as they walked away. It wasn’t going to be a pretty conversation, but it would be a walk in the park compared to the one he knew he had to have with Bobby regarding their fledgling relationship. The man was opening his home to them, alienating a good friend for them, it didn’t seem right to hide things from him.

Sam mewled slightly and Dean checked the distance to the next rest stop. Sam needed more medicine and food would be a good idea too. The road stretched out before them and Dean knew that no matter what, as long as they were together, they’d make it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
